


What the Body Grasps Not

by sexyvanillatiger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Consensual Underage Sex, Fighting, Hate Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, Slurs, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexyvanillatiger/pseuds/sexyvanillatiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fulfillment of this prompt from the Teen Wolf Throwback Fest:</p><p>"So I have this headcanon that the reason Jackson and Stiles don't get along is because Jackson adored Claudia Stilinski. She was the children's librarian or volunteered at their school a lot, maybe watched Jackson after school, whatever, but she spent a lot of time around the kids, maybe helped Jackson overcome some reading issues, talked to him, listened to him in a way his mother didn't and so Jackson grew attached to her and jealous of Stiles, who always seemed to be acting up and giving her a hard time (pre-medicated ADHD) and Jackson was convinced Stiles didn't deserve her. Then she died. So Jackson doesn't know how to deal with that and Stiles is barely coping and maybe words are said which leads to years of actual, seething hatred, culminating in hate sex. Lots of hate sex. That. Keeps. Happening."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Body Grasps Not

**Author's Note:**

> The physical relationship between Jackson and Stiles begins before they are both sixteen, making them underage in the eyes of the law in California. If you are not comfortable with this, please refrain from reading.

The last time he sees her awake, she forgets his name. Stiles doesn't acknowledge her at first until she says it again, the wrong name, and Stiles realizes she's talking to him. He frowns at her, eyes watching the woman who looks so much like his mother. Then he looks at his father, who is also frowning, but more in a sad way. Stiles can feel tears at the edges of his eyes.

After that, she falls asleep and never wakes up.

Stiles doesn't really understand the big deal. Even after the machines start screaming and the medical staff start hustling him about, hustling her about, she looks the same as she had since she fell asleep. He doesn't learn that she's dead until his father tells him he doesn't have to go to school for the rest of the week.

It's a quarter to ten on Tuesday morning, head heavy on one of her pillows, that he realizes what the big deal really was. He was sitting in the hospital with a _dead person_. And not just any dead person. He was _alone_ in that moment, more alone than he thinks he'll ever be in his life.

What he realizes that morning is that the most lonely a person could be isn't one. It's two minus one.

 

When he gets back to school the next Monday, after the funeral is done, after she's buried and her relatives are gone and the house only holds the broken family she left behind, Jackson beats him up. He shoves him against the fifth-graders' lockers and yells some ugly name at him, calls him stupid and worthless. Scott tries to push him away, but Jackson is bigger, so when he pushes back, Scott falls.

Stiles can't do anything but observe from his place on the lockers, staring between Jackson and Scott. The bully loses its fire and Jackson finally looks like he might cry, all the fight gone from him. He storms off, and Stiles, shaking, peels himself away from the metal to help Scott back to his feet.

The hallway, now abuzz with chatter, remains still, locked from wall to wall with onlookers. Scott, to his credit, finds his balance and starts to dust Stiles off, righting his clothes and making sure his backpack is still zipped. "Don't listen to him," he mumbles after a moment, obviously simmering. Stiles just stares blankly into the graphic on Scott’s tee-shirt.

A teacher breaks through the commotion and asks if Stiles is okay. He shakes his head. She asks if he wants to go home, but if that's what happens when he's sad, he decides he needs to change his first answer. He can weather Jackson and the crowded halls and the classrooms, chalk screaming, markers squeaking, teachers begging him, _Stiles, please just pay attention_. He can weather it better than he can weather the empty halls in his own house. Bottle clanging, father begging him, _Please, Stiles, just go to bed_.

He's never been able to pay attention before, but it's worse now. He feels like he can't even try, and by the end of the English lesson, he's on his first trip down to the principal's office. The principal sits him down and asks him quietly if he wants to go home. He says, "No, ma'am," and the principal tells him that if he can't pay attention and stop being a distraction, then he'll have to go home.

So he tries harder, but it doesn't get easier. He can't stop tapping his pencil, can't stop drumming his fingers, jiggling his leg, squirming in his seat until he's standing up and walking around his table to pass the time. All the while, the teacher tries to quell the other students and corral Stiles back into his seat, but instead, he tries to run for the door. It isn't because he doesn't want to sit down. He would gladly sit down next to his mother's hospital bed. It's just that he doesn't want to sit down with _them_. He can hear them, their whispering louder than they probably realize, spreading the news of his mother's death.

As though everyone in Beacon Hills didn't know already. More like they're just reminding him that she's gone. He screams at them to shut up while the teacher drags him back to his table, literally drags him, hands under his arms, heels pulling against the linoleum.

This time, he goes to the principal's office and stays there.

When his father comes to pick him up, it's with a very angry look on his face. The angriest he's ever looked. Stiles is certain that it's all because of him, and he looks to the lady at the front desk to save him, to keep him in school overnight, that's a punishment, right? He doesn't have to go home as long as he's bad enough?

His father holds his wrist too tight when he leads him to the car. Buckles him in, climbs into the front seat and turns the ignition. And then sits there. Stiles jitters in his seat, staring out the window at his school. He didn't say goodbye to Scott, he realizes belatedly.

"Stiles, we can't have this," his father finally says. "I know it's hard, but I really need you to behave. Things are hard for both of us, okay? And I need a little help from you. Okay, bud?"

Instead of answering, Stiles just clenches and unclenches his fingers. His father sighs and puts the car in reverse. The ride home is quiet, as is the house when they arrive to it. That night, Stiles retires to his own bed but doesn't fall asleep until he crawls into his parents' bed. He had planned to sleep on his mother's side, but his father is already there, so he takes the side closest to the door and tries not to disturb anything.

 

The day Jackson finds out about Mrs. Stilinski, he goes home early. The whole time he's waiting for his ride, Danny asks him if he's okay a total of twenty-four times. He doesn't want to talk, so he snaps, barks, yells, "Shut _up_ , I'm _fine_ ," doesn't realize he's crying until his nana gets down on her knees and wipes his cheeks. She takes his hand gently and leads him out to the car, and when he gets into the backseat, he curls up on his side. She tries to do his seatbelt, but he won't move, so she just drives extra slow.

He realizes that he can't stop crying when it becomes heaving becomes sobbing, painful and coarse in his throat. He clings to his nana's waist, burying his face in her stomach when she pulls him into her lap later, trying to bring him comfort from a suffering of which she is ignorant.

Jackson thinks of asking for his own mother, but the thought passes quickly when Mrs. Stilinski's image comes to mind. He doesn't want to see his own mother right now, he misses Mrs. Stilinski too much.

He regrets this at dinner when he's eating alone, both parents caught in meetings with clients that couldn't reschedule. Neither of them could make it. He chews his mashed potatoes and pushes his peas around until nana affirms that he will not get away with not eating them. He goes to bed more full than he wants to be, and he puts his head over his pillow. Dreams of the things he wants to say to Stiles when he comes back to school.

Just the thought of the kid's shrill voice puts needles in his eyes. They tingle all across before welling with tears. How could a woman so wonderful have been burdened with such a bad child? He wishes he could have been her child, been good for her. He was her favorite student. He could have been so good for her.

How wonderful it would be, how strange it would be to have someone to be good for.

 

Two years later, a teacher recommends that Sheriff Stilinski take his son to see a psychiatrist about his behavioral problems. At two in the afternoon on a school day, Stiles is bouncing around the reception room. The receptionist eyes him knowingly, waving away Stiles’ father after he tries to help pick up a cup of pencils Stiles had knocked over.

 _ADHD_ , the doctor said.

 _Thank you_ , his father had breathed, prayer-like, unnoticed by anybody but Stiles. The psychiatrist moves on.

 _Adderall_ , they prescribed. For the first two weeks, Stiles takes it as directed. He finishes a lot more homework, and even manages to stay on-topic in most of his essay questions. After two weeks, he stops taking it for a few days. Not because he's forgetful, but because he doesn't like the way his father doesn't look at him when he's so quiet.

The first thing his father asks is if he's still taking his medication. He almost tells the truth but lies. It's clunky, a train-wreck of words crashing into his teeth, and his father catches him without even having to try. He tries to assure his father that it was only a Freudian slip, that he has been taking it exactly like they all told him to, except then they pull the bottle out and count the pills. His father gives him the most disappointed look.

When Stiles thinks about how he wanted his father to look at him again, he knows that it wasn't like this. So he takes his pill before leaving for school, and his stomach hurts when Scott greets him.

"Think it's the meds?"

"Nah, they don't do that, it's probably _psychosomatic_." His voice raises to almost a shout as the result of Lydia walking past him. She used the word just the other day when making fun of a girl, pre-menarche, complaining of menstrual cramps. The girl had cried and Lydia hasn't shed one apology since the incident. Rather, she gave a rude, pointed look towards Stiles when he'd repeated the word, begging for definition.

Getting clarification from Lydia Martin is like seeing a unicorn: beautiful and absolutely impossible. Instead, he'd looked it up in the dictionary. It's luck that it fits where it does in his sentence (and if he forces it off of his tongue, he still says it), but Lydia still doesn't look back at him as she continues in the direction of her locker in the fifth-grade hallway.

He shrugs his shoulders and promises himself tomorrow, probably tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll think of something that will catch her attention, tomorrow he’ll take her out of the path that is leading her to being that stupid lacrosse groupie at the high school. He’ll take her away from a dead future of living on the arm of Jackson Whittemore. He watches her leave and the bounce in her strawberry hair tells him that she’s better than that. He knows that there’s more to her, he just doesn’t know what.

When he looks back at Scott, his friend is smiling at him, a devil's smirk, knowing and unnecessary and unnerving. Stiles pushes his shoulder as hard as he's allowed to with the leniency that comes with friendship. He turns and ducks through the doors, where teachers are herding students into lines that will take them to classrooms. Scott breaks away to join his line, Stiles walks straight ahead towards his. He cuts into the middle of the line in front of Erica who smiles shyly and lets him in. Turns his head over his shoulder and from the back of the line, Jackson scowls at him and mouths a dirty word that Stiles can't understand. He sighs and faces forward, not clever enough to think of anything with his muddied mind. All he can do is focus.

 

"It's so stupid," Jackson mutters, his entire body veering to the side as he steers Star Fox away from Pikachu's thunder. Danny rolls the pokemon closer and hooks onto Jackson's avatar. Jackson, in turn, grunts and jams the X button. "Like, _all of the sudden_ he pays attention in class. I mean, he pulls the same stupid crap. He still turns in essays on the mating behaviors of _jellyfish_ ," Jackson remembers overhearing the teacher trying to have a serious conversation with Stiles about that one, "but. He acts like he's paying attention." Offhandedly, and with a stiff tongue, he says, "I bet his mom would have been proud if he'd acted this good all the time."

Danny hesitates, sending Jackson a wayward glance, which gives Jackson just enough time to throw Pikachu off of Hyrule Castle. "Dude," he says, distractedly leaping Pikachu to safety.

"What," Jackson snaps angrily, the emotion in him growing. "I'm just saying. He was such a...such a _shit_ for so long," the swear trips him, and he blubbers his way back to stable speech, "and now that she's gone, he's just the perfect kid? I don't get it. Why wouldn't he have acted like this years ago?"

With a shrug and a sigh, Danny offers benevolently, "I don't think that's how ADHD works. You can't just _stop acting_ like that." He silences conspiratorially, lets the moment drag dramatically for a moment. "Besides, I heard he's on medication now."

Before leaving that evening, Danny adds, "He misses her, too."

"What?"

Danny smiles. "I know you miss his mom a lot. I just wanted to say...well, you know. Because you two, like, hate each other. But you're really a lot alike."

Jackson almost asks who Danny is talking about before he gets it. He snarls and hums low in his throat, the sound thrumming with nowhere to go. "Shut up Danny." 

Danny just shrugs and turns toward his mom’s car, parked on the curb.

That night, Jackson plans on climbing in bed in his parents’ room. He hasn’t done it in awhile, and he almost feels a little bit old for it at the tender age of eleven, but he needs a hug, and he’s not sure how to ask for one anymore. Sometimes Danny gives him one. Not after what he said tonight.

Instead of following through on his plan the way it was supposed to go, he falls asleep and has a nightmare, and he ends up going to his parents’ room anyways. Before he goes, he checks the clock. It’s later than he wanted, but it doesn’t feel like a plan anymore anyways. The walk down the hallway is punctuated with glances over his shoulders, silent breathing, at some points not breathing at all, walking on the balls of his feet.

When he arrives, the lights are out, like they should be. It’s a sixteen pace walk to the bed on his small feet, still a large distance even for adults. The sheets are smooth but not soft, difficult to hold onto as he uses them to vault himself onto the high mattress. Wedges his toes between the box-spring and the mattress to make his climb, and finally lands-face first into the cold sheets, right where his father’s feet should be.

He scrambles his way up to the head of the bed, already having awoken his mother, and she’s reached over to turn on a bedside lamp by the time he reaches her pillow. She frowns at him and sits up, mumbling his name as he curls up to her.

“I had a nightmare,” he begins, and then, after a minute pause, “Where’s dad?”

“Your father had planned to be home late tonight,” she explains tenderly, but tiredly. Through a yawn, she asks him, “What was the nightmare about?”

Jackson tells her that he doesn’t remember. All he remembers is waking up terrified, cold sweat sliding around between him and the fabric of his jammies. All he knew was that he’d needed someone to hold him.

His mother accepts this and wraps both of her arms around him, pulling him into her lap now. She bounces slightly and rocks him side to side, and for a moment, he remembers how much she loves him, even if she’s not around to say it all the time. When he’d gotten into bed, he’d wished that his father would also be present, but it doesn’t distress him now. He doesn’t care that he probably won’t even see his father the next morning. His parents love him.

“Do you think you’re good to go back to bed now?” his mother asks him softly, biting off another yawn. He just leans back and looks at her. She smiles. “It’ll be okay. You’re a big boy now. Big boys sleep in their own beds.”

Jackson glances desperately at his father’s empty spot, pillows pristine and untouched, though the covers have been rumpled by his mother’s own in-sleep tossing. Her arms loosen around him and her hands grasp him, turning him towards the edge of the bed so that he may jump down easier. It’s too easy, and he doesn’t look back when she tells him that she loves him and goodnight and have better dreams so that he can wake up fresh for school.

It’s when he gets back into his own bed that he remembers what his nightmares were about.

Mrs. Stilinski.

As a zombie or something, but he doesn’t think that part matters. the important part is that he dreamt of Mrs. Stilinski and he didn’t get to see her face because it was different, monstrous. His brow shrivels up and his eyes sting like salt has just been thrown in them, and then they swell and burst, tears flowing freely now. He cries into his pillow to keep the noises from echoing.

The next morning, he doesn’t wake up for school on time, and neither of his parents are there to catch him.

 

Beacon Hills in November is green. Wholly and unequivocally living, blooming in the corners that don’t bloom as they exist in other parts of the world. The edges of the playground, padded with wood chips, boasts tall slots of grass that the weedwhacker couldn’t reach or didn’t care to try.

All this and more because of the rains that come in the late fall and last through the winter. Suffice to say, the ground is in a constant state of some degree of moisture. Today, it is spongy. Not quite wet enough for mud to ooze out of its grass-root holdings, but retaining enough water to slush up under pressure.

The children’s shoes are soaked—a soccer ball was found behind the slides, one that had not been there before Thanksgiving break, and a congregation of several different classrooms have come together over a messy game during recess. Scott and Stiles have the same recess, so they are put on the same team. Flailing in the back behind some of the girls who actually play rec league soccer, and flailing in front of the goalie, a boy who is on a real soccer team with the city.

Jackson has a different recess than Danny and Lydia, so Jackson is on the other team with some of his less close friends, ones that he’s in class with. They don’t have as many actual soccer players on their team, but they play aggressively, kicking the balls too high for the other teams’ girls to reach them. When the ball slides in under their feet, the girls weaving in and out of their reach, they close in and try to swarm everything the other way.

So it’s not a totally unbalanced game as much as it is horribly messy and mean and spirited, laughter and tears in equal measures. Twice, teachers threaten to end the game if the boys can’t play nicer, but nothing comes of it. Those who are overwhelmed abandon the match for the swing-set, where they can watch from up, beside the tree branches.

Eventually, enough players clear out that Jackson gets a clear view of Stilinski and McCall toeing around at the back of the field, beside the goalie’s net. A pathetic excuse for defense. He has the ball between his feet and he’s controlling his kicks like his father told him once (he didn’t have time to actually come home and show him, but he described it pretty well) and he’s almost between the two boys in seconds.

Jackson takes this way because he figures it’ll be the path of least resistance. McCall couldn’t breathe his way into Jackson’s path if it meant winning an actual medal, and Stilinski isn’t exactly paying attention anyways. He’s calculated this out. It should be a perfect goal opportunity.

He doesn’t slow down when Stiles runs right in his way. Not because he wants to crash, but he just can’t comprehend the idea that Stiles would just step in front of him like that. It feels almost like running into traffic. In his shock, he bowls the boy over, and the both go tumbling onto the ground, one rolling over the other until Jackson digs his palms into the earth and hoists his body up, over Stiles.

He takes a ragged breath, feels his clothes soaked and clinging to his body, the air slowly easing back into his lungs. And then he looks down at Stiles. Who has his hands clasped over his forehead, eyes scrunched shut and half-covered by his wrists. He looks like he’s in pain.

Jackson scowls. “Don’t be such a baby,” he sneers, and Stiles opens his face furiously, looking about to say something. He gets out a short “ _What_ —” but before he can finish, Jackson is lifted up by hands tucked under his arms. He’s set on his feet, and another teacher helps Stiles up as well. Jackson shakes out his t-shirt but doesn’t realize that the teachers are trying to lead them inside until one starts pulling at his elbow.

He looks up at her and frowns and then looks over at Stiles, who stumbles a few steps before pitching forward and heaving. Jackson watches with a sick fascination as Stiles’ lunch comes out before him, watches as he almost falls face-first into it. The teacher catches him before he can wobble too far, and the walk into the school is much faster than it was a moment ago.

A nurse is shining a flashlight into his eyes when he overhears the phone call. Something about Stiles’ father being very busy, maybe being able to come by in an hour. _He’s fine, Mr. Stilinski, he just needs rest right now. Come when you can._

 _This one’s fine_ , the nurse grouches as she stands. Jackson looks over at Stiles who really can’t focus but not in the same way as he can’t focus without his medication. “What happened,” he asks before the nurse can walk away from him.

She looks back at him with a softer look on her face, and tells him, “He hit his head too hard. How about you go over there and keep him company while he waits for his dad? Let us know if he starts to feel any worse?”

Jackson scowls, but she raises a dutiful eyebrow at him. “It’ll get you out of class for the afternoon.” Teachers always use that weakness. Jackson’s scowl deepens, but he moves to sit next to Stiles on the sick bed. Stiles’ gaze snaps toward him, but then his eyes close and he totters. Jackson steadies him with a grip on his shoulder. Stiles rights himself.

“What were you even doing there,” he mumbles scornfully, not looking at Jackson but obviously talking to him.

Jackson just can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you kidding me? _You’re_ the idiot who stepped in front of _me_!”

Stiles scoffs out a laugh and turns his head, leaning back against the wall. “Whatever,” he mumbles, sliding to the side as if he doesn’t know he’s falling. Jackson grabs out and catches him by the sleeve of his t-shirt. Stiles shakes him off, jamming an elbow into Jackson’s side.

Like boys do, Jackson retaliates with a harmless slap to Stiles’ shoulder. “Watch it,” he snarls.

Instead of doing that, Stiles intentionally lets his hand fly and catch the side of Jackson’s face. He reaches out in retaliation, arms tangling with the boy, both of them scratching and hitting what they can reach, Stiles lethargic and Jackson cautious. Stiles groans in frustration, pushing harder with his flailing arms but finding no more purchase than before. Jackson wards him off by grabbing for his wrists and shoving them into his chest.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up Stiles.” The voice is faint, coming from the very front of the nurse’s office, and neither boy pays it any attention. Stiles continues to flail in Jackson’s general direction and Jackson continues to shove his hands, his body, his face away.

“ _Boys_ ,” is what finally catches their attention, Stiles’ father standing before them with his hands on his hips.

The nurse walks behind him, face agape as she realizes the scene they’ve just interrupted. “We all thought you’d be coming later,” she starts, but abandons the sentence.

The Sheriff’s face is very hard, tough like Jackson has never seen it before. “So let me get this straight: first, you give my son a concussion, _now_ you’re fighting with him?” His volume has gone up a little at the end in that way that most parents do but not Jackson’s parents and so, in its unfamiliarity, it’s _terrifying_. Jackson’s brain scrambles to excuse himself.

“No, _no_ , he was gonna fall, I was just trying to stop him, he wouldn’t stop _moving_ ,” he hurries to say, all of it almost at once. 

The Sheriff takes pause, takes a deep breath, and in his sternness, seems to resign himself. All that Jackson sees is that he’s probably out of the doghouse. Right now more than ever, he just wants to go back to class, if he can. As far away as he can get from the Stilinskis is the happiest he’ll be.

“Alright,” the Sheriff says, and he and Jackson both look at Stiles who is leaned up against the back wall pitifully but also looking like he wishes he couldn’t hear them. The Sheriff rests a hand tenderly on his bruised knee, and Stiles softens.

Jackson softens with him, eyes slanting shut as they drag around Stiles’ face and body. He’s never seen the boy look this sad, or never noticed. He turns his head and tells himself that if he gave a shit, it would matter. Stiles and his father sign out and leave, and the nurse asks Jackson if he wants to stay and sleep or go back to class. He chooses class.

 

The last day of fifth grade, Jackson trips Stiles at their graduation ceremony. Not inherently on purpose, but not stopping it from happening either. He can see the Sheriff rub a hand across his eyes wearily. Seeming to have seen Stiles just _trip_. Jackson smirks to himself. Stiles scowls at him and sticks his tongue out.

He gets reprimanded by a teacher.

Jackson sits back in his seat and feels triumphant.

 

Jackson and Stiles end up in different sixth grade groups. They do not have the same teachers. They are not in the same hallway. Instead, Jackson shares all his classes with Scott. They do not talk, they do not look at each other at the same time. They sit in opposite ends of the room and don’t share answers on their homework.

When the bell rings, Scott meets Stiles in the atrium where all the hallways meet, and Jackson beelines towards the back hallway to find Danny.

Sometimes Stiles watches him, warily.

 

The new semester of their seventh grade year starts with a half-day on the eighth of January. Jackson walks into his new music appreciation class and finds Stiles sitting in the back corner furthest from the door: what normally is his corner in any classroom he occupies. It’s been a year and a half of having his spot uncontested in all of his classes. He figured that his good fortune would be broken eventually, but _this_. _This_ is going too far. He’s tempted to say something, but the thought of interacting with Stilinski just boils his blood. He takes a seat in the opposite corner, right next to the door.

The classroom fills up slowly until the last second before class starts, when every seat fills itself in a matter of seconds. The teacher is late by two minutes and walks in with a thermos, held at elbow length, and a folder, clutched to her chest.

The folder turns out to be full of syllabuses, freshly printed and warm even as she hands them out. Jackson lets his hands absorb the heat until he sees Stilinski out of the corner of his eye doing the exact same thing (they meet gazes—they freeze) and both of them stop.

This semester, they will have to learn to play at least one song on the piano or the guitar. They will learn to read music and they will learn the different types and periods of music. At one point in the year, they will be put into small groups to write a presentation on a song of the group’s choosing. The teacher seems nice. Young, relatable, almost pretty.

Jackson doesn’t pay attention to her at all. He’s preoccupied with watching what should be _his_ seat, keeping an eye on its occupant as though he could melt away Stiles’ flesh with his gaze. Stiles meets his eyes a couple times but doesn’t hold him for very long. He doesn’t seem to hold much. Jackson wonders if he’s not taking his medication again.

Stiles, in his own shaken world, is more worried about the surprise erection he’s suddenly sporting. For some reason, while staring into Jackson’s steely gaze as they both fondled their syllabus, his autonomic nervous system thought it an appropriate time to make an appearance downstairs.

Which is odd, because he’s gotten hard because of a breeze before, but never, ever has it happened from even _thinking_ of Jackson, let alone looking at him.

In one thought he’s suddenly consumed with insecurity. Is everything in his life a lie? He thinks of Lydia Martin for a moment and realizes that that’s not going to help him in his current situation, but it does make him feel better knowing that he still finds her very agreeable.

So what he does is he doesn’t really listen to what the teacher is saying, but he assumes she’s reading the syllabus, which is fine, because his father will want to go over it again after dinner. Instead, he thinks of things that are unappealing. Things like mean dogs and family pictures. Broccoli and cheese. Bullies. Which inherently leads him back to thinking of Jackson.

 _Dangit_ , his mind screams, close to cursing, and he can’t focus. The bell rings and he’s the first one out of his seat, not even putting his syllabus away, just slinging his backpack onto his shoulders and carrying the sheet out in his hand. He’s almost through the door when Jackson stands up, right into his path.

“Forget your meds today, Stilinski?” he snaps, a wicked smile on his face that looks like Jackson doesn’t want to be smiling at all. “Maybe next class, you can stay out of my seat.”

At first, Stiles is offended, but then, he’s just confused. Out of Jackson’s seat? “What?”

“The back corner of the room is _mine_.”

“Go suck your thumb,” Stiles flares boldly, moving to step around Jackson only to catch his shoulder in the chest. Other kids are trying to move around them to get through the door, but slowly, the boys are moving to take up more and more space. Stiles shoves Jackson away, and Jackson grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him back even harder.

Stiles drops his backpack and now they’re fighting. More like a haphazard slinging of fists than an actual fight, but the teacher still loses her head. She drags both of them by the sleeves of their shirts down to the principal’s office, where they sit and wait outside the door with another kid who has paint spilled all down the front of himself. Stiles is harder than ever.

“Way to go, Stilinski. First day of school and you get me sent to the principal’s office.”

“Whatever, Jackson,” Stiles huffs, exhausted of the attitude. “Just stop talking to me.”

A girl with a red face and mean fists slumps out of the principal’s office and into the hallway. The kid with paint all over him is called in. Jackson scoots down one seat on the bench. Stiles hesitantly follows.

“Oh my god, Stiles.”

“What?”

Stiles looks at Jackson and Jackson is looking at Stiles’ pants. _Oh_. Jackson laughs.

“You gay, Stilinski? I have to admit, I’m a little surprised—”

  “No, I’m not gay! Just shut up!”

“Make me!”

It might be a record, come to think of it. Fighting in class, getting sent to the principal’s office, and fighting at the principal’s door. They’re too short for the secretary to see them through the office window, though, and class has started so the halls are empty, and nobody can appreciate the phenomenon of Stiles’ and Jackson’s hatred for one another.

Nor the fact that Jackson is much bigger and slightly stronger than Stiles, and has him by his wrists in under a minute. Stiles is flushed and aggravated and he hates that Jackson is touching him and loves that he’s being touched all at the same time. If he knew how to properly head-butt someone, he thinks to himself, now would be the time.

“Jackson, _please_ let go,” Stiles grits out meanly, the last resort he uses before he starts kicking and causing a scene. Jackson, instead, leans forward and smiles and almost has the chance to speak when Stiles just finishes. Like, _finishes_. Right there. It’s horrible and wonderful and he can’t see for a moment, but when he can again, Jackson looks appalled.

“Did you just…”

This is, perhaps, the most mortifying unobserved experience in Stiles’ life. Jackson scoots away from him, as far to the edge of the bench as possible. Stiles wants to say something, apologize maybe, tell Jackson that this is what he gets for being a jerk, _something_ , but all he can do is stare. Jackson is hunched over, probably going to be sick. What if he tells people?

Stiles notices that Jackson is hunched over his crotch. No. Couldn’t be. Stiles strains to get a glimpse and is delighted with what he sees. Delighted to know he's not the only one. He outright laughs, his own pants starting to soak through with his come.

The principal comes out to greet them both and verbally announces that he is not pleased at all with what he sees.

 

“An accident? Stiles, you’re thirteen years old, you don’t have accidents anymore,” the Sheriff says tiredly. At one point, it might have been a reprimand but now, it’s just disappointed disbelief. “I can’t leave work right now. Is there anything in the lost and found?”

“No. We checked.” He twiddles the phone cord around his finger, saddened by the tone of his father’s voice.

A heavy sigh is followed with, “Okay. I’ll see if anyone here can swing by and grab you something. Just...be honest with me. Have you gone to the bathroom at all today?”

Stiles twists his mouth unhappily and grouches out an indignant yes.

“Okay,” the Sheriff says. “I just want to make sure that you were at least trying.”

Stiles waits for him to hang up first before he does. He’s going to get a talking to for the fighting, but the accident is an old conversation Stiles thought he’d never have to have with his father ever again. Still, he’d rather everyone think he wet himself than let them know that he couldn’t control himself while fighting with Jackson stupid Whittemore.

It was probably just the fighting, anyways. Stiles sometimes has the same problem when he wrestles with Scott, but Scott says his mom said that it’s just a normal things that happens sometimes and it’s nothing to be worried about. She probably never took into consideration that it could happen with Jackson. After hanging up the phone, he returns to the bench where Jackson is sitting, waiting to call his own parents.

He gives Stiles a long look before standing to do so. Dials slowly, waits for longer than Stiles would consider normal, and then leaves a message. Of course Jackson would be so lucky as to not have to actually tell his parents what happened. Jackson returns to the bench not looking like he feels so lucky.

The principal returns to where they sit just a moment later and dismisses Jackson. Stiles is to return to class once his clothes have been brought to him. Before Jackson leaves, he turns to Stiles like he has something to say, but not like how he would normally say it. Maybe it would have been something like _don’t tell anyone_ or _I don’t care about what just happened_ or something, but whatever was on his mind never surfaces. He just shrugs his way through the hall and slouches off towards class.

The hallway slows down after that. Nobody passes through, nobody exits the office, nobody talks to him. Stiles sits in complete isolation until one of his favorite deputies arrives, a clear plastic bag of his clothes in tow. He only needs underwear and jeans, but she brought him a clean pair of socks, just in case. She waits outside the bathroom while he changes and lets him put his soiled garments in the bag. He doesn’t ask for a hug before she leaves but he gets one, and he’s grateful for it.

Stiles does not share his next class with Jackson, nor any after that, and he doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. After school, he meets Scott on the bus. Considers telling him about what happened, but reconsiders. It’s not really something people go around talking about, even to their best friends. Or at least, that’s how the situation seems to Stiles. That is to say, Scott’s never mentioned anything like this to Stiles, so Stiles figures it’s best kept to himself until about that time.

 

Jackson masturbates as soon as he gets home. He pulls out one of the magazines that Danny stole from his older brother, but doesn’t look at any of the women on the pages. Which is okay. Danny says that he used to masturbate to the book without looking at the pictures, either. Besides, this is far from Jackson’s first rodeo, and he’s been able to get off from just his imagination before. Mostly what’s different is that he’s never imagined Stiles in his head before. Never really thought the guy even had a working penis. But the idea that he does is strange. Different than he ever thought it would be.

A little bit dangerous, Jackson thinks as he comes. Too enticing. A kid like Stiles shouldn’t be like that. It’s not normal for _those_ kinds of kids to get the attention of someone like Jackson. What it is is not fair. Laying in bed, staring at his ceiling, feeling disgusted with the mess he’s made of himself, he bets in his mind that Stiles isn’t thinking of him at all.

As per emergency protocol, Danny is over at Jackson’s house almost as soon as he hangs up the phone. Jackson doesn’t know who else to turn to. And it isn’t like he plans on telling Danny anything, but for god’s sake, he needs something to keep his mind from running. Danny has Scrabble tucked under his arm, a game that he never loses, and Jackson doesn’t even put up a fuss, just pulls out seven tiles and asks,

“Danny, who was your first crush?”

With a wry smirk, Danny answers him, “It wasn’t you.”

“That’s not what I meant. Geez,” Jackson snarks in return, aggressive to a fault. He doesn’t know how to cover himself, so he just gets mad. Danny is used to it, so he throws his head back, laughs, and shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t know. Probably Lydia, I guess.”

“It wasn’t a guy?”

Danny levels Jackson with a look. “ _No_. That doesn’t mean anything, though. I didn’t have my first crush on a guy until, like, third grade.”

Jackson’s stomach rolls. Can gayness be that latent? Surely, even if he were gay, he wouldn’t be gay for Stilinski. The thought turns him in ways that he shouldn’t be turned, and he is seized by a long, sharp shudder. Danny gives him a withering look before turning back to the board to play his first word.

“Besides,” he adds, “you can still have crushes on people and not actually want to be with them. It’s like, a different thing. I wouldn’t want to be boyfriend and girlfriend with Lydia, even though I think she’s pretty.”

“Yeah, she doesn’t even hold hands,” Jackson adds absently. Danny laughs loudly at that, loud enough for it to echo through the open door into the hall.

Jackson starts the game with _ski_ for six points. Danny plays the word brick over two double letter scores. At fourteen points for the word, Danny is ahead already, and Jackson has little hope of catching up.

There are other board games they could play. Jackson’s desk, unused for school or work, hosts a variety of boxes filled with cards and plastic pieces and paper money. There are more than enough games for them to play through an entire summer. But Danny likes Scrabble and this is the only game Jackson doesn’t care if he loses, so he plays. Sometimes he even learns new words.

“So why are you asking about my first crush?” Danny asks, aloof, not even looking up from his letter pieces.

Jackson shrugs. It’s because he’s not sure if boys who like boys have crushes on boys _and_ girls, which seems to be Danny’s case. Somewhat frightening, because he isn’t sure that the feeling he’s had about Stilinski is the same as the feeling he’s had about Lydia. It’s similar enough for the comparison to have come immediately to mind, but different enough to make him uncertain, unstable, and hopeful that maybe this is something else.

“I don’t know. What do crushes on boys even feel like?” There’s a derisive edge to his voice, meant to be offsetting, but Danny is rarely offset. Especially not by Jackson.

He stops fiddling with his pieces and finally looks at Jackson. “Why?”

Jackson sneers at him and plays a really stupid word, _hello_ , only eight points. He pulls his new tiles from the game bag and when he looks up, Danny is still looking at him. Less offended, softer now, but still a devastating look. Analytical. Danny is going to figure it out at any minute now, and Jackson isn’t sure how he feels about that. Yes, he trusts Danny. But this isn’t the kind of thing that can be negotiated with trust.

“Okay, whatever. I’m just _curious_.”

“Is this about Stiles?”

Jackson guffaws and throws the tile bag into the game box, scattering a few pieces within its cardboard walls. Danny reaches in to put them away while Jackson works to keep his face neutral. He only realizes belatedly that he’s working too hard on being authentic that he has neglected to answer and is sitting up too straight and is maybe breathing really carefully. Danny, of course, picks up on all of these things.

“Look, it’s not that big of a deal—”

“It is a very! Big! Deal!” Jackson’s voice has risen for emphasis and the maid, from downstairs, cautions him to quiet down before his parents get home.

“Boys can like boys, you know that—”

“It’s not _that_ ,” Jackson spits, though it is a little bit that. But mostly, “It’s _Stiles_.”

Danny smiles. It’s not Jackson’s favorite smile. It’s probably closer to his least favorite smile because it always means that Danny finds something amusing. The things that Danny finds amusing do not always sit well with Jackson.  “What’s wrong with Stiles?”

“This isn’t a joke, Danny.”

“I’m not saying it is. I was just asking what’s wrong with Stiles, is all.”

“Are you kidding? _Everything_ is wrong with Stiles! He’s annoying, he never pays attention, he’s loud and he never stays in his seat, he’s so _stupid_ , he—he’s gotten me sent to the principal’s office more than anything else in the world!” Jackson fumes, his disgust with Stiles overflowing into his rant. “He dresses dumb, he has no friends, no mom—”

Jackson stutters to a halt here, jaw clenched, body trembling, not realizing there are tears in his eyes until he tries to read the pieces on the game board and finds them fuzzy. He looks up at Danny, who looks scared and sad all at the same time, and Jackson doesn’t know what to do, so he escapes to his bathroom quickly, muttering something about being right back.

It’s not fair, he thinks to himself as he puts the toilet seat down and sits on it. Pulls his knees up to his chest and lets his head fall forward into them, jarring him, the sharp edges of his patellas catching him in the forehead.

It’s just _not fair_. He could have ended up having a crush on Danny or something. Anyone except for Stiles. But for some reason, Jackson can never get by with these things. Danny knocks on the door and says something softly. Jiggles the knob and finds it locked, though Jackson doesn’t remember locking it. Everything seems to be on autopilot. The knob jiggles again, the lock turns, and then everything pauses for a moment before Danny finally enters.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says, quietly, with penance.

Jackson shrugs his shoulders listlessly. “It’s whatever.” And then, “No, it’s not,” he huffs out, breathing coming a little bit quicker again. He shakes his head. “It’s...I mean, it’s... _Stiles_.”

“That’s okay.” Danny sits down on the rug, nonchalant even as Jackson watches warily. “Yeah, so you guys have hated each other since he was, like, born. So what? He’s not that bad. I mean, he talks a lot. But he has...issues, you know? It’s not his fault.”

Jackson scoffs, but untucks his knees from his core. “He’s such a _stupid_ …” He can’t think of any way to finish the sentence, can’t figure out a way to make this all better with words. “I just don’t know what to do. I really don’t like him.”

Danny laughs. “Tough, dude. Why don’t you just talk to him about it?”

“No way.”

“No, c’mon. I know you want to hate him, but maybe if you talked to him, you’d find out that he’s okay?”

“And then what?” Jackson frowns. “Tell him how I feel? Talk about my _feelings_? He probably still hates me. He’d tell everyone. No way.”

“You really have that little faith in him,” Danny mumbles, amazed. “I mean, you’ve never even actually talked to the guy and you’re assuming what he’s gonna do if you tell him you have a crush—”

  “It’s _not_ a crush.”

“Whatever.”

They both know exactly what it is, but Jackson would be much more comfortable if they abide by the rule of not naming it. Danny doesn’t seem to acknowledge this, the denial not even seeming to register in the features of his calculating expression.  “You have music with him, right?”  Instead of answering, Jackson asks, “What makes you think he’d talk to me?”  Danny shrugs. “Maybe he feels the same way.”

Jackson rolls his eyes in a _yeah right_ fashion. It’s improbable, but not entirely implausible. Jackson and Stiles have history. Not exactly the history you see in books about mothers and fathers and forbidden lovers. More of the history one might see between France and Germany, but history nonetheless.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him on Monday.”

Danny nods. “I think you should.”

 

The Monday talk never comes. Jackson walks into his music appreciation class and heads to the back corner of the classroom. Puts his binder on his desk, takes his seat and realizes that its previous owner is conspicuously absent. While students are still trickling into the room, he takes the opportunity to slide up to the teacher’s desk and ask her where Stiles is.

“Considering your reputation, the principal and I thought it would be beneficial to both you and Mr. Stilinski if you were placed in separate music classes.”

 

It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. Jackson lets it bother him for maybe a minute. He doesn’t tell Danny about it, but he thinks Danny just figures out that the talk never happens. Jackson hardly even sees Stiles with the new schedule. It’s fine. Quiet. Peaceful. Jackson finally holds hands with Lydia and everything is as normal as it should be.

 

Stiles sometimes forgets about that horrible moment in seventh grade, fighting on the bench outside of the middle school principal’s office with Jackson Whittemore. He only really remembers it when he has bad dreams that use such a horrible memory as the foundation. Bad dreams from which he wakes with wet sheets and soiled pajamas. _Terrible_ dreams.

Sometimes it brings him back two years to when he had Jackson’s hands on him. Jackson’s face near his. Back to when they couldn’t go one half class period without talking to each other, fighting with each other. The first half of eighth grade, they had two classes together. The second half they had three. For an entire year, they’ve managed to not talk except in passing, not to maintain a vicinity together except to work. It was an impressive streak.

Sometimes it makes him think. It’s not that he doesn’t know anything. He kissed Danny last winter break at a Christmas party. He’s pretty sure that kisses are supposed to feel like that: wanting, warm. Maybe with somebody who wanted to kiss him more than Danny, but it’s the same infrastructure: if Jackson had kissed him on that momentous morning outside the principal's office, he would have let him.

So maybe Stiles masturbates and thinks of Jackson from time to time. It’s better than porn. It’s better than Lydia, whom he cannot even imagine naked in all of her fashion-designer-jacket, kitten-heels-in-eighth-grade glory. Maybe it's a little masochistic; maybe it's a joyful pain. Maybe it’s easier now that they don’t have anything to do with each other. It’s easier because he doesn’t have to talk to Jackson tomorrow if he doesn’t want to, doesn’t have to even see him if he sits in the right desk.

It’s not _gay_ , Danny told him. It’s _bisexual_ , and it’s fine, as long as you don’t fuck with my best friend. Stiles isn’t sure if Danny was demanding abstinence or peace, but it hasn’t mattered much since then, has it.

It doesn’t matter except when Stiles wakes up like this, remembering the first time someone brought him to orgasm, remembering it well. Thighs soaked, sheets soaked. Laying on his stomach, face and arms out to the side. He groans his way into waking and sits up onto his knees. Palms his sticky crotch. Finished already. He tucks his face into his elbow for an aggravated shout. An _are you kidding me_ into the darkness. And the darkness answers with silence. A short snort from down the hall, where his father seems to have just rolled onto his back.

There is a secret hiding place for nights like this in Stiles’ room. He keeps his closet stocked with sheets enough for a week’s worth of emergencies, and below that, he keeps a short, wicker hamper. Seemingly unused, since he has a larger one next to his desk. And yet, there is almost always a set of yet-to-be-washed sheets and jammies in it. As per custom, Stiles stuffs tonight’s wreckage on top of the same from last week, when he dreamed about flying and woke up a mess. He’ll have to do laundry on his father’s very next evening shift.

He’s gotten good at unmaking and remaking his bed in the past year, so it’s not very much time at all before he’s back beneath his covers, snuggling up to his pillow. Sleep has not yet returned to his head, and his eyelids seem to resist closing, so to pass the time to allow the darkness to slip back into his breathing and thinking, he reaches for his phone. Used only for school, Scott, and dad, he doesn’t usually have anything on it.

Surprisingly enough, though, there are two text messages waiting. His lazy fingers fumbled to scroll towards them, and when he opens the thread, he recognizes the sender as a number he knows but refuses to save. For reasons.

(925): _i wrote the 1st paragraph of the presentation_  
(925): _jane said have ur part done by thursd so we can put it 2gether_

Stiles rolls his eyes and is about to text back a mundane okay while he tries to equalize the Jackson in his dreams versus the Jackson so bent on getting straight A’s, but instead, something else happens. Somewhere in his mind one single neuron seems to poses the question: why did Jackson send this at what appeared to be one-oh-seven in the morning instead of the evening prior. It being closer to three now, Stiles is sure that it isn’t fair of him to anticipate a response until morning, but he asks:

_u been thinkin about me l8 @ nite, jacks? hottt_

It’s crude, quite unusual for the new rendition of their relationship, but so is a one in the morning text. So really, the final perception of who rocked the boat first will depend solely on affiliation to one party or the other. Stiles feels his sleep coming towards him, and he rolls over to embrace it.

His phone, behind him now, buzzes dutifully.

Stiles flops onto his other side faster than he can take a breath. He flips open his phone, frowning at the screen and punching the center key madly to open the message thread.

(925): _i wrote the 1st paragraph of the presentation_  
(925): _jane said have ur part done by thursd so we can put it 2gether_

_u been thinkin about me l8 @ nite, jacks? hottt_

(925): _gross. how bout u just bring ur piece n shut up_

Stiles bites down on a grin and a bubble of laughter. He can just imagine Jackson’s face, eyebrows flat and mouth flatter, eyes narrowed almost to flatness as well. The entire, flat, unimpressed look. It’s not one Stiles is unfamiliar with. It’s the one he knows that Jackson is making _right now_.

_srry big boi. just cant help but think things when i get 1 am txts._

Immature and hopeless, but much more interesting than sleeping. Stiles pushes his blanket back with his feet and sits up on one elbow, watching his phone intently, delighted to no end when not a minute later, his phone buzzes with that number, and he’s ready and waiting to read,

(925): _r u messing w/ me? i s2g ill break ur face if u r_

It takes the breath out of him, and his heart is beating so fast that he can’t figure out whether this is funny or if he’s still in the same mode he was in when he woke up. It’s all the same. The way the air he breathes feels carbonated, everything feels shaken and fizzy. He reaches over to his nightstand to grab at his glass of water, takes hold of it and then decides that he’s not actually thirsty and replaces it on its coaster.

_y would i b messing w/ u, jackie?_

(925): _i no where u live_

_good ;-)_

Stiles feels the oncoming confrontation but never gets to delight in it. His bedroom door opens faster than he can close his phone and roll over, and his father is the one standing in the doorway. Groggy, but definitely disappointed.

“Stiles? What are you doing up this late?” The light spills in from the hallway and both of their eyes adjust. His father can see his phone, and he can see his father’s frown deepening. “I thought I told you that was for school.”

“It _is_ ,” Stiles insists. “Jackson asked me to bring in my presentation on Thursday.”

“Stiles, school does not happen during bedtime. Here,” he steps forward and puts his hand out, “give me the phone. You’ll get it back in the morning.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, holding the phone tight in his grasp, until he feels the fight leave him. His father’s gaze has that power. He disconnects the charger, closes the phone, and hands it over. Nothing pains him more than feeling the warm plastic leave his fingers, knowing that Jackson will have something unbelievably perfect to say that, come morning, will be unanswerable because this is not a text conversation that happens while the sun is up.

He only belatedly thinks to fear his father opening the phone and seeing the texts. He’s not exactly a pro with technology, but he’s not stupid. He’ll be able to figure out in a handful of seconds what Stiles was saying.

But his father leaves the room, shuts the door on his way out, and the line of light peeking in from the hall flicks out. Stiles feels no closer to sleep than if he just woke up next to an intimate python. He breathes just as soundly. He anticipates the morning with all the desperation of a ship in a storm. Curls up into his covers. Wishes he’d never woken up.

 

“Sounds weird.”

“No, it sounds _dumb_. We have STARs in two weeks, the presentation next week, and instead of actually working on anything, he _flirts with me_?” Jackson hisses the last part under his breath, for fear that some idle nobody will catch onto the fact that there are messages on his phone from Stilinski that he wouldn’t will his worst enemy to read.

“In all fairness, it doesn’t sound like he’s not working on anything, just that he’s working and flirting at the same time.”

Danny dodges Jackson’s elbow and pulls the hood of Jackson's hoodie up over his face. The squabble takes up a couple lanes of the hallway, and Jackson ends up bumping into a sixth grade girl with glasses, who apologizes when she turns to face him. He rolls his eyes and mutters some dishonest semblance of an apology.

“Yeah, but he’s flirting with _me_ ,” Jackson picks up as they turn the corner, his voice lowering again.

Danny shrugs. “What’s so wrong with that? If you don’t like it, tell him to stop.”

Jackson scowls. “That would mean admitting that I know he’s flirting with me.” It would also mean that Stiles might never text him like that again. In reality, Jackson only fell asleep last night at four in the morning after waiting for Stiles’ response (one that never came). It’s kept him on edge since he woke up, checking his phone repeatedly. He tells himself that it’s not an invested interest in Stilinski. It’s more like pining for a movie sequel. He just _wants to know_.

Now that it’s on his mind, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks it again. Still nothing. He hesitantly opens the text thread, following Danny’s feet through the crowded hallway to keep from bumping into anybody. He catches a quick glimpse of the same messages that have been there since three this morning before his phone is snatched from his hands. For a moment, it feels like he’s dropping it, and he scrambles to catch it. After that, he quickly realizes that Danny has taken his phone.

“Give it back,” Jackson demands, face burning as Danny reads the messages.

“Wow.” Danny closes it and passes it over. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Um, no _Danny_ , I wasn’t kidding.”

“Why did you text him at one in the morning?”

Jackson shoves his phone into his pocket and shrugs. “Because I was texting Jane at one in the morning, and she said to tell Stiles to have his thing in Thursday.”

“Why wouldn’t you text him this morning, instead?” Danny’s smiling, his smile is growing, it’s becoming disconcerting, just watching, knowing that thoughts are blooming, knowing that Jackson should not have let Danny read those messages.

“Because I didn’t want to,” Jackson snaps, and pushes past Danny to get to his class. Danny just laughs and says nothing, disappearing into the crowd towards his own first period. Jackson won't see Stiles until right after lunch, at which point he has class with him for three periods in a row. Until then, he keeps his phone in his front pocket even his phone is supposed to be in his locker the whole day. He thinks to himself that he really needs to figure out a way to keep Stilinski from getting to his head.

 

By the time Jackson gets to the cafeteria, unbelievably, he’s not thinking of Stiles anymore. He’s trying to wrap his head around pre-algebra, crunching numbers. He missed almost a third of the problems on the homework and he doesn’t understand why, and when he asked his questions the teacher answered as though he had asked different ones. He should get his lunch and take it to the counseling center where he could get someone to tutor him through his mistakes, but instead, he spreads his sheet out on the lunch table next to his tray and tries to figure out what went wrong. Thinks idly that he should start showing more of his work.

Danny takes the seat beside him and puts his lunchbox down to the side so as not to set it down on Jackson’s homework. He glances over it briefly before turning to his food. “Has he texted you back yet?”

Jackson looks up, brow furrowed, confused, before his face opens and he breaths a short, “Oh.” He frowns again and says, “No,” turning back to his homework with more aggressive concentration now, although not exactly focusing as hard as he was a moment ago.

“Well, you have next period with him,” Danny offers.

“I have the next three periods with him. It doesn’t matter right now. Here,” he shoves his homework at Danny. “What did I do wrong?”

Danny glances over it. “Didn’t move the decimal over at the end.”

“For which one?”

“For all of them.” Danny unwraps a sandwich and takes a bite, then turns in his seat to look around the cafeteria.

“What are you looking for?” Lydia asks him as she takes a seat, lips twisted as though she doesn’t care about the answer to her own question. “Jackson, are you ready for the quiz?”

Danny turns around and shrugs while Jackson gives her a long look and asks, “What quiz?”

She smiles, not friendly. “The quiz next period. Or did you forget all about cellular anatomy?”

Jackson pushes his tray away and drops his head onto the table. “ _Dang_ it.”

Lydia reaches into her binder and pulls out a sheet of paper, pushing it across towards him. When Jackson takes it, she reaches into her binder and pulls out a pen. “You’re lucky you have me.” The sheet she’s handed him is a diagram of a cell, complete with detailed drawings of organelles. Throughout the drawing are blank lines indicating to various structures. Lydia drew a practice quiz for Jackson to use. He looks up at her, straight in the eye, and says, “I love you.”

She scoffs and makes a rushing gesture. “Hurry up. I want my pen back as soon as you’re done.”

As soon as he sees the cell, he remembers it all again. It’s fuzzy. His mind won’t stay in place. It bounces from Lydia to Danny to Stiles, somewhere in this room, Danny suddenly standing and leaving the table.

Jackson asking, “Where are you going?”

Danny holds up a zip-loc baggie full of plastic wrap and an empty fruit cup. “Trash.” There’s a trash can closer if he goes towards the cafeteria entrance, but instead, he heads for the trash can on the interior wall, close to the food line. Jackson follows Danny with his eyes, but loses him when Lydia taps the study sheet in front of him.

“Do you want to get an A on this quiz or not?”

 

Danny comes out of nowhere. One moment, Stiles is listening to Scott tell a story about one of his mom’s patients trying to get up and go to the bathroom after coming out of surgery, and in the next second, Danny Mahealani is right in-between them, blocking his view. He reels for a second, sliding back, and then recognizing that Danny has cut in between their chairs and is smiling at Stiles.

“Hey,” he says, which is unsettling because yeah, he _knows_ Danny, but they don’t exactly talk. And yet, the next thing out of Danny’s mouth is, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“What’s stopping you,” Stiles says flatly, still trying to figure out what’s going on. Scott leans forward to see around Danny, catching Stiles’ eye and mouthing What’s going on, to which Stiles can do nothing but shrug. Danny turns to catch Scott mouthing something else, but he stops as soon as he’s caught and leans back in his seat.

“Just wanted to talk to you about Jackson.”

“Oh.” _Oh_. “Did Jackson send you?”

Danny laughs. “No.” He crouches down between Scott’s and Stiles’ seats to avoid standing, and looks up at Stiles acutely, eyes narrow and mouth quirked up. “Just saw the texts and got curious.”

Scott’s eyes widen and he leans forward into their conversation. “You texted _Jackson_? About _what_?”

Stiles flinches defensively. “We _are_ working on a project together, you guys.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what you were talking about last night.” Danny smiles and rocks back and forth on his heels; the devil’s smile.

“So what? It’s was three in the morning. I was just messing with him.”

“Oh, good. He’ll be glad to hear that.” Danny shoots up to his feet and makes to step out, away from their table, but Stiles reaches out and grabs him by the back of his shirt.

“What do you mean by that?”

Danny shrugs, pulling his shirt out of Stiles’ grip. “He’s been hung up about those texts all morning. Anyways, why did you stop texting him back?”

“My dad took my phone.” Stiles watches Danny go, wondering if he’s telling the truth. Probably not. It’s probably some cruel joke to get back at Stiles for messing with Jackson in the first place. Danny disappears into the crowd before Stiles can see where he goes to sit, so he turns back to his school lunch and stares absently into his peas.

“Stiles?”

Scott watches him, concerned. Obviously concerned. Probably for Stiles’ mental health. God help either of them for having to text Jackson Whittemore. But Stiles can understand how a situation like this could be misinterpreted by an outsider. Stiles turns towards Scott and leans forward, voice low when he says, “I woke up really early this morning and had a text from Jackson, so I just started messing with him.”

“Like _how_?”

“Like...I don’t know, I guess. Acting like...I don’t know. Flirting?”

Scott’s jaw drops and he turns back to his food, turning back to Stiles a moment later. Seeming to be going into shock. Stiles smiles sheepishly but it doesn’t come out like he wants it to. “It’s just a joke.”

“Okay, Stiles,” Scott says when he gets his wits about him again. Shakes his head as though for a dead man. “But if he beats you up for this, I’m not jumping in to save you.”

Stiles pauses for a beat before smiling. “What, my knight in shining armor? What am I gonna do without you at my side?” Scott laughs an I-accept-you-mocking-me kind of laugh and pushes at Stiles’ arm. “No, really, without you there, the average oxygen intake on my side will be astronomically higher without—ow! You don’t have to hit so hard!”

Scott laughs, for real now, and after the two of them have gotten their fair share of blows in, they settle down. “So...do you often... _joke_ with Jackson Whittemore?”

“No. It just...I don’t know. I had a weird dream last night, and when I woke up, I had his text, and I just. I don’t know. I just decided to go for it.” Stiles doesn’t consider this to be a very un-Stiles thing to do; if anything, spontaneity is his trademark. And yet, being spontaneous in Jackson’s general vicinity...that is a new development. To be the one that breaks the peace. “It’s probably just gonna be a funny memory one day.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

 

Stiles turns around three times in Biology and gets in trouble for it twice, _Eyes on your quiz, Mr. Stilinski_ , but he finished labeling six minutes ago and he wants to know what Jackson is doing and why there aren’t any spitballs in the folds of his shirt or notes with death threats being slipped into his pockets (he knows, he’s checked). He can’t see much, but what he does see is that Jackson is staring intently at the sheet before him, seeming to not notice that anything in the world exists other than cell organelles.

“Mr. Stilinski, _please_.”

He nods and starts to turn around, but a calculated hesitation lets him see Jackson’s eyes flicker up from his work, ceaselessly moving around Stiles’ person until they return to the quiz. Stiles rolls his eyes and turns around in his seat. _Some funny memory one day_ his ass. He only wishes that he’d never sent the texts in the first place. It was a dumb idea, anyways.

 

Jackson is so relieved about his grade on the cell quiz that he actually gets Lydia to skip sixth period, which she probably wouldn’t do if she didn’t know everything they tried to teach her anyways. Danny meets them in the faculty bathroom with the broken lock. Danny has his Gameboy DS, Lydia has a compact and her lipgloss, and Jackson holds his phone, tapping it against his thigh as the silence percolates.

Danny reaches over to show him the Pokemon he’s just caught, some stupid pink cow thing. Jackson rolls his eyes and says what he really feels and Danny prods him with the stylus hard enough that it hurts. He tells him, “Ow, Danny, that hurt,” which he probably shouldn’t, because it just makes Danny laugh, and when Danny laughs, Jackson laughs. When both of them laugh, Lydia looks at them like they’re not worth her presence.

“So Stiles,” she says blandly, all amusement gone from her voice. A wry smirk pulls at her lips. “I heard I have some competition?”

Jackson barks out a laugh and tucks his phone into his pocket. “As if,” he mutters, casting his gaze to the side. Danny glances between them, leaning forward when nobody speaks up.

“He said he was just messing with you.”

Heedless of how captivated he seems, Jackson’s attention snaps onto Danny. “He said what?” Lydia looks on with narrowed eyes.

Danny shrugs. “Yeah, I talked to him at lunch time. He said that he was just messing around. And he stopped texting back because his dad took his phone away.” He puts his DS into his bag and pushes his hands into his pocket. “But he seemed like he wanted to know what you thought of it.”

Jackson seethes. “Well I _think he’s the _dumbest kid on earth_.”_

Lydia rolls her eyes. Melodically, she says, “I’ll bet he thinks just as highly of you.”

“Yeah? What would _you_ do if Stilinski started flirting with you at three in the morning?”

“I’d ignore him. Like I'd do if it's three in the morning or _not_.” Lydia smiles sweetly and cocks her head, one finger twirling in her curls. “If you ask me, you seem pretty invested in what Stiles is doing. Or, should I say, _why_ he’s doing it.”

Jackson stares at her long and hard. He glances at Danny, who is looking at the floor. Looks back at Lydia. She meets his stare, demolishing him with her lips quirked up and her eyes sharp, unyielding. He gives before she even seems to have committed to bringing him down. “It’s just dumb, okay? I don’t care, I just want to know.”

“Jackson, sweetie, that _is_ caring.”

 

The _meet me by the back trash_ is something that Stiles technically isn’t allowed to respond to. He’s half “grounded,” which is difficult because he’s supposed to keep his phone, he just can’t use it for anything other than emergencies. If the Sheriff knew that Stiles knows how to delete messages and even entire conversations, he would probably be a little bit more grounded from his phone privileges.

Instead, he’s not, and he texts Jackson back, _whatever_ , because he didn’t even know Jackson was still in the school. He hasn’t seen him since Biology and just assumed that he’d skipped off to somewhere more interesting. Also, he’s not interested in fighting Jackson Whittemore. He’ll probably lose. He leans over to ask Scott to go with him (because backing down would just make him look like a wuss) but the teacher snaps at him and holds him in her hardened stare until he rights himself in his seat and goes back to acting like he’s doing the reading.

Which he’s not. He can’t focus. He can only think about whether Jackson will start with a right or a left. Gut or jaw. Slam him into a wall or throw him to the ground. Stiles sighs and puts his head down on his desk. The teacher barks at him again. He raises his head, but just in time for the bell to ring, and so he puts it back down. If he decides to meet Jackson, he’ll miss the bus, anyways.

Scott shakes him by his shoulder and asks what’s wrong. Stiles just pulls out his phone and shows him the messages.

Scott frowns. “Just don’t go,” he offers sagely with a shrug.

Stiles shrugs. “I’m gonna.”

“Stiles, I gotta go. My mom’s picking me up today.”

“Oh.”

Scott gives him a long look before pulling his backpack on and begging him not to go one more time. Stiles stands, pulls his backpack on, and steps into the hallway. Turns against the crowd, edging his way to the back of the school, out by the gymnasium, to the big, heavy doors that open into a fenced-off area. You can’t enter from the outside without a key, and normally there are too many janitors in this hallway to get out from the inside.

Stiles always has that kind of luck. Fantastic adventure of his own volition? Caught. About to go get his face beat in for flirting with Jackson Whittemore? No witnesses, no faculty, what janitors?.

The doors lock automatically once they close, so Stiles props them open with his backpack. He ventures out, hands in his pockets, circling around the enormous dumpster in the center of the fenced enclosure. It smells awful, but looks clean on the outside. Stiles isn’t nearly tall enough to see what’s on the inside. The ground is concrete and stained from years of abuse. On two sides of the enclosure are concrete walls—one of them belongs to the hallway and the gymnasium. The other belongs to the music room. The fence is tall, chain-link with painted dark green slats. The entire space is cast in shadows, the only light coming from the brightness of the sky overhead. The sun has since passed by this way.

The grimy squeal of the door sounds from behind Stiles, and he whirls around to see Jackson stepping carefully over his backpack. Their eyes meet and for a moment, neither of them move. Stiles is still convinced that Jackson might just take his life today. So he toughens up, broadens out, sticks his chin into the air before him and says, “Whatever you’re gonna do, just go ahead and do it.”

Jackson watches him for a split second before laughing, outright _laughing_ at him. Stiles has seen a lot of laughter in his time, a lot of it directed towards him, but never like this. It’s the kind that hurts his feelings but relieves him at the same time. A confusing feeling that is interlaced with other confusing feelings that don’t mean as much to him as _he might not punch me anymore_.

“You are so dumb, Stilinski.”

Stiles scowls. “Then what do you even want, Jackson? I'm gonna miss the bus.” He's already missed it, but it's worth mentioning.

Jackson sobers quickly, eyes trained on Stiles. Sheepish, all of the sudden. Looking about as uncertain as Stiles feels, and it’s not a good look for Jackson. Too unusual to be edgy. Not practiced enough to feel sincere. But Stiles knows better than that. There’s something up, and it still probably revolves around that stupid text thread.

“Whatever it is, hurry up. I’m walking home today because of you,” Stiles spits, anger growing in him as impatience gives way to unease.

“Whatever. Shut up. I can give you a ride home. Geez,” Jackson hisses in one breath, speaking up too quickly and realizing it a moment later, roses in his cheeks.

“What do you want?”

“What do _you_ want?”

Stiles wants to say that the question isn’t fair, that he asked, first, but Jackson has had this curiosity boiling in him since last night. Which is actually pretty unfair of Stiles. Not that he often thinks about how Jackson feels, but it’s pretty hard not to with the guy standing right there, letting it all hang out on his face. Looking at it is kind of disgusting or something that feels similar, like with butterflies in his stomach or something. Stiles isn’t exactly sure.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to mess with you, I guess.”

Jackson scoffs. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks away. “Honestly?” he finally says, sounding more fed up than he does reassured.

“Yeah, I guess, whatever.”

“No,” and it comes out crude, dirty. Mean. Jackson advances with fists heavy at his sides, swinging hard when he walks, and Stiles backs up until he’s right against the fence, voice high and tight in his throat, ready for the blow that will end him. “Not whatever. You don’t get to do that,” Jackson almost shouts, and Stiles’ eyes flicker to the door on the far side, hoping that somebody will come for him.

When Jackson gets into arm’s reach, he takes Stiles by his collar and shoves him into the fence. The chain link pattern digs into his shoulders and his spine, his body aching forwards, away from it. Into Jackson. Stiles can’t get the rhythm of fighting, he always falls into one of intimacy.

Even now. He doesn’t know where free passes come from in moments like this, how people get away from fights without scratches or dents. By panicking, he supposes. By panicking. By—

—reaching forward and kissing Jackson Whittemore. Yes. By kissing Jackson Whittemore.

Not exactly a technique that would be found in the _Art of War_ , but it works. Whereas before, Jackson’s grip on his shirt had almost been choking, it slackens until his hands are practically cupping Stiles’ shoulders. Wait, they are. Stiles is kissing Jackson. Jackson is kissing him back.

Belatedly, Stiles feels grateful for this. Come to think of it, kissing Jackson would probably have been a good short-term plan, but the alternative to the current turnout is probably getting punched harder than he ever would have by just standing there and taking it.

But that’s not what he’s facing right now. Right now, he’s trying to figure out how tongues factor into kissing, and where to put his, because Jackson’s mouth is opening slowly but surely, and the kiss is getting closer with every unsteady breath they take between them. Stiles’ fingers are hooked in Jackson’s shirt, fists so tight it’s painful, and he lets out a small noise that has Jackson pressing against him. He loses it; he thinks he'll stop, thinks that he'll calm down, but even as he thinks this, he's coming in his pants. Because of Jackson. For the second time in his life.

“ _Jackson_!”

Stiles shouts it accusingly. A sort of _darnit, Jackson!_ , but when he looks up from his soiled pants at Jackson’s face, he can see how that could be misconstrued. Because Jackson looks like he’s just been shoved headfirst into the same predicament as Stiles. Of course somebody as self-involved as Jackson would find his own name so enticing.

“Fuck,” Jackson mumbles when he finishes, when his breath comes back from the grave in his chest, eyes staring fixedly at the nowhere in Stiles’ stomach. Stiles flinches when he hears it, the swear a little bit too loud and too easy off Jackson’s tongue.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats, shoving away from Stiles, stumbling at first, but getting a solid grip on pacing in a circle around the dumpster. Stiles, who would have pegged himself as the pacer out of the two of them, watches in horror.

It takes a couple minutes, but Stiles believes that they both cool off. Jackson stops moving and Stiles stops fearing for his life, so they might just be okay. Stiles is going to have to walk home in soiled pants, but it’s not the end of the world. He’s still alive. That’s more than he expected coming in this afternoon. He clears his throat and starts wobbling towards the door, veering around Jackson to give him some room, and almost reaching the door before Jackson says,

“Stiles.”

Stiles makes a good show of not freaking out, turning slowly and completely as in control of his movements as he normally is. “Yeah?”

Jackson shrugs and doesn’t meet his eyes, but says, “We can give you a ride. If you need.”

 _Oh_ , he thinks. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah,” he finishes when he finally figures out that Jackson is offering something nice. Maybe he’s just realizing how uncomfortable wet pants are, but Stiles decides that he should not waste this opportunity, lest another one never appears.

The woman driving the car is not Jackson’s mother. Stiles has only seen the woman once, but he knows that this is not her. That’s okay. She’s nice and opens the door to the back seat for both of them, buckles them both in, and doesn’t say anything about their jeans. Maybe she can’t tell. She’s been waiting on them awhile, anyways, and they might be dry enough for her to just ignore so that she can get home quicker. Stiles understands that.

Once at the wheel, she asks him for directions to his house. He gives them, especially detailed, reaching as far into the front seat as his arms can reach to point out streets and signs and his driveway when they pull up to it. The entire ride, Jackson is unusually quiet. Stiles hardly notices until he’s about to get out, and not once in his rambling about the town layout or his place in it did Jackson interject. Stiles glances at him as he pulls his backpack onto his shoulders, and Jackson meets his eye briefly, only long enough to sneer at him before looking away, out the window.

“Alright, Stiles! Is your dad home? Or do you have a key?”

“I’ve got my key,” Stiles says, fishing it out of his pocket, and the woman even walks him to the door to make sure that he can unlock it without trouble. She seems like a very nice woman.

He gets inside, locks the door behind him and runs to the window to watch them leave. The light falls onto the car windows, tinting them, making it impossible to see what either of them look like as they pull away, but Stiles imagines that it’s not as interesting as he wants it to be, anyways. He runs upstairs, sheds his clothes, and pulls out new ones. He thinks about this afternoon, but not deeply. In the same way as he would think of a dream. He could have dreamed this. He comes to terms with it that way.

 

Jackson allows himself this crisis. He supposes that Stiles isn’t even thinking about it. The word _faggot_ races through his head, though he’s not sure where he’s heard it before. His heart beats faster when he realizes that maybe he’s not thinking of Stiles at all. Maybe he’s calling _himself_ the faggot.

Danny has never been anything but normal, Danny even had crushes on girls at one point, so what makes Jackson so different? Danny is a different sort of thing. The kind of thing that doesn’t soil his shorts on school grounds, who doesn’t respond to strange text messages in the middle of the night. Mostly, the kind that doesn’t associate with kids like Stiles.

Jackson wonders if he’d ever tell Mrs. Stilinski how he felt, if she were still alive. It’s an equal toss-up as to whether he’d just blurt it out or manage to keep his mouth stuffed with the dry lump of his tongue enough to keep his secrets hidden. She’s always the person he went to for advice, or to help him figure out a word in a book, or to discern the difference between multiplying fractions and dividing them. Although full of the greatest guidance he’s ever known, guidance that he has kept with him since her passing, he’s not sure he could trust somebody so closely associated with the enemy. A spark of red flares up in him that Stiles would keep her from him then, too.

He loses his fire and throws himself on the bed. _Stiles_ , for god’s sake. He needs to get the guy off of his mind.

 

Summer nights are always dull. Soccer practice never goes past dark, a lot of kids go on vacation to sunnier parts of the state, and Jackson’s parents are still never home. Danny’s family sometimes goes back to Hawaii to visit cousins and brothers and sisters. Lydia makes a checklist of museums she wants to visit, and professors and politicians that she wants to meet. The list is always substantial, and by the end of her summer, she’s usually only crossed off a third of it. And Jackson finds himself alone, playing video games, bettering his aim with his crosse, and he’s set up to be on the lacrosse team this year, captaining it by sophomore.

All the time to himself is a lot of time to improve.

He doesn’t often sleep well, never tires himself out enough. He hovers insatiably in consciousness, only sinking into sleep when he least expects it. Dreaming that he’s running every night. Restless when he wakes, legs still kicking the covers. Angry often.

The first good night of sleep Jackson gets, he dreams of Mrs. Stilinski. He doesn’t remember her name, and her face is all wrong, but it’s definitely Mrs. Stilinski. She is asking for a book he checked out weeks ago, promising to waive his late fee, and he begs her forgiveness for being insincere. In the dream language he’s speaking, it means the same thing as _I’m sorry for losing the book_ , and as a librarian, she understands that. He almost remembers her name when he wakes up.

The name is on the tip of his tongue, refusing to roll out into the dark night air, but he realizes that the name he was remembering is nothing like her real name. He forgot her name completely and made a new one up, and the strangeness of the dream reassures him that this is okay. A glance at the clock shows that it is too early to be awake and that when he wakes again it will be much too late to be asleep. He checks his phone, as per habit, and finds nothing.

When he wakes again, he smells breakfast. Probably a meal long past. Breakfast is always made, whether he is awake for it or not. He hasn’t worked up the heart to feel bad about that. He is dressed too slightly in only his pajama pants, and he doesn’t meet anyone on his way into the kitchen. The house is his own. A note on the fridge says that his parents are going to be headed straight for the airport after their workdays, and there is a grocery list on the kitchen counter—if he wants anything from the store, he should write it down.

So it’s the park today.

His escape when there is nothing for him in his room, nothing in his neighborhood, nothing in the neighbors of his neighborhood. He packs his snacks, his water bottle, his various game balls and his crosse, dresses in his t-shirt and his athletic shorts and his grungiest tennis shoes. Now ready, h hikes his way to the park.

Its rolling expanse denies the slight stature of the town. Something more fit for a suburb of San Francisco, the parameters of the park boast variety and care. The grass, despite the summer swelter, is green. The wood-chips beneath the playground are soft and smooth, not a splinter to give. Each day, whatever tarnishes the blacktop is washed away. The park could be the pride of the city, for all anyone cares about anything else.

There are families surrounding the play area: jungle gyms crammed on either side by baseball fields and a football field and a soccer field. None of them particularly big enough for the rec leagues, but all big enough for days like this. Chaperoned by those families, scattered amongst the plastic obstacle courses and bases and endzones, are children from the local schools. Most of whom Jackson doesn’t recognize, whether they’re younger or new or from the surrounding area.

A couple of them, Jackson does recognize. For instance, Stiles, and his Scott-shadow. Neither of their parents are around, so they are either accompanying another family or are here, like Jackson, on their own terms. They take up the two swings on the very end of the set, and Stiles looks about to fall off every time he reaches his peak forward.

But that’s none of Jackson’s business. He never stops here. He slouches onward, up one side of a hill and down the other, trees starting to appear less sparsely, surrounding him, back where there is only a running path and the stray adult trying to jog in the shade. He drops his backpack and pulls out his crosse and a ball.

He’s got a can hammered into the hollow of a tree. His nanny helped him do it a summer or two ago when she decided she would rather him fish the ball out of that instead of the filthy hole in the tree. _Bugs and dirt and germs_ , she had told him.

Jackson is almost perfect at hitting the hole as long as he’s focused. He’s not often unfocused. There is very little to distract him. He fires three shots in a row, all of them clanging off the back of the can, two of them hard enough to ricochet around its walls until thudding back down into the grass.

Three for three, he goes to make it five for five.

His next shot lands just above the can and bounces back towards him. His shoulders are tense and his grip on the stick is painful. His head is still ringing, and when he turns around to where Stiles is standing, seeming to realize the error with his unusually loud greeting, Jackson tries not to throw anything at him.

“I just...saw you over here by yourself.”

“Yeah, no duh,” Jackson snaps, pushing at the grass with the head of the crosse. Scott is not with Stiles, he notes. He turns to collect his lacrosse ball and resumes his scoring position.

“So...you’re just playing lacrosse with yourself?” Jackson declines to answer, actively seeking his focus. “Scott and I were thinking about trying out. I mean, it’s big at the high school, I guess.”

“Yeah, it _is_ ,” Jackson interjects, hoping to cut him off. No luck.

“Yeah, so it’d be really cool to be on a team like that. Besides, we’re too short for basketball.”

Just about given up on his shot, Jackson turns enough to look Stiles up and down. “Yeah, you are.”

Stiles smiles weakly, obviously putting a lot of effort into it. Maybe putting a lot of effort into _this_. Jackson turns to look at him more fully and wonders why it’s worth it. Yeah, he vaguely thinks about the schoolyard. Faintly remembers fighting in the hallway. It all is behind him. He doesn’t think about it anymore. So to Stiles’ smile, he sneers and turns away.

“I just wanted to hang out over here,” Stiles responds petulantly to the silence.

“Well _don’t_ ,” Jackson demands.

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“God! You’re _so_ annoying! I can’t believe _anybody_ puts up with you!” Jackson keeps his back to Stiles and is unprepared to be pushed, almost losing his balance and meeting the grass.

Fighting with Stiles is more difficult than Jackson remembers. They’ve both had growth spurts in over the past few months, both of their bodies offering only a few inches in preparation for high school, but Stiles is definitely the more gangly of the two, limbs everywhere. Squirming. In the grass, too long for Jackson to keep a hold on.

Which is dumb, because he would know exactly what to do if he were on top. He would know exactly where he wanted to punch Stiles, exactly how hard he would shove his face in the dirt. Down here, with his back in the grass and Stiles hovering above him, it’s obvious the guy doesn’t know what to do. Probably never considered hitting Jackson Whittemore. Smart, but not smart enough. He fights like an octopus, wrapping around everything Jackson throws at him, pushing it to the side.

Jackson shouts out in frustration, bucking his hips up and sending Stiles sprawling forward, right onto him. Without his balance, though, Jackson is able to shove him off and scoot up alongside him where he can push Stiles down with a hand between his shoulder blades, scrambled up and lines up across his back. He gets an arm around Stiles' neck, pulling his head back in a choke. Stiles gives a concerted effort to buck him off, but Jackson stays put.

When they both still, their torsos heave for breath and in their chests, their hearts beat wildly. Stiles has his hands planted into the ground, elbows crowed up at right angles from the long line of his trunk. Prepared, ready to spring up given the chance. The muscles in his arms are small, hard to define, clinging to his bones desperately. Still, Jackson feels his strength.

This is not a position he wants to be in, fighting with Stilinski, but it’s one he finds himself thinking of when granted the opportunity. Given their history, he considers this to be reasonable. A better way of saying it, at the moment, may be that most of the time he doesn’t want to be in this position. Still, it’s the one he finds himself in, and he doesn’t regret it. He uncoils his back, enjoying the lengthwise spread of himself over Stiles, and finally takes control of what conspires against them.

Stiles’ breath stops, or slows, or quiets, and Jackson tries to ignore it. The curve of Stiles’ body is beckoning, Jackson having found the space of it pleasing against his front. He grinds and wonders if Stiles has silenced in favor of or against this development.

His answer comes in moan, Stiles’ flat body bowing to meet the ground in a motion mimicking Jackson’s rutting against him. Fucking into the ground, back up towards Jackson. Fingers curled in the grass, desperate, pulling.

“Wait,” Jackson barks, because fuck if he’s going to soil his clothes again because of this. He's seen Stiles jeans messed up too many times to make this mistake again. He reaches down and gets his own zipper undone first, pushing his jeans out of the way. Stiles is not long behind him, and while he works, Jackson pushes the guy's shirt halfway up his back, leaning down once more and rutting down against Stiles’ bare skin. Stiles braces himself on his knees, arm tucked underneath him, fist tight around his arousal.

Jackson doesn’t last long. It might be the fact that they’re in the middle of the park, it might be how warm Stiles is beneath him, it might just be that he hasn’t masturbated in the past two days. He’s not willing to admit that it might be Stiles making soft noises from below. Still, whatever it is, Stiles is still panting when he’s done, hand working furiously as Jackson sits up and looks in his bag for something to clean up with.

At the bottom of his backpack is an old hand towel, one that smells like it’s been rotting down there for some time. He pulls it out and turns towards where Stiles is laying, seeming to have just finished. Jackson wipes himself clean before throwing the towel on Stiles, who uses it to clean his back and his hands. Some semblance of thanks is muttered in the exchanging of towels.

Jackson buttons his jeans and Stiles pulls his up and they sit there, quietly. Contemplative. Finally, Jackson says, “I don’t like doing this.”

Stiles just snorts. Jackson doesn’t say anything further, just takes his lacrosse stick in his hand and turns it, making something to focus on that isn’t Stiles.

“Whatever,” Stiles finally gives for a proper response. “It’s not even that bad. You’re not the one who got messed up.”

“Messed up?”

Stiles indicated to the remnants of Jackson’s completion on the back of his shirt. Jackson nods. “Wouldn’t’ve been a problem if you hadn’t just come over here,” he mutters.

“ _Whatever_ ,” Stiles says again, more forcefully this time. He waits for Jackson to say something, and Jackson doesn’t. So instead of sitting there in silence, Stiles stands and stomps off. Like it was stupid to come over here anyways. Jackson watches him go and thinks, _Good riddance. Good. Riddance. Right?_ Yeah. Yeah, he decides. It’s whatever.

Except it’s not whatever, because it’s really dumb and a little bit slutty that the past couple times Jackson has seen Stiles, they’ve ended up humping. When he thinks about it, Jackson gets kind of mad. Mad enough to think about going to a different high school just so he doesn’t ever have to worry about running into Stilinski again. It’s a childish thought, but he figures it would be worth his while to present it to his parents the next time he sees them.

If only he didn't _really_ want to be captain of that lacrosse team.

 

Stiles makes it his goal to stick with the one who wouldn’t put a lacrosse ball through his face if given the chance. Because Danny, unlike Jackson, does not almost tear the netting of his stick when he finds out that Stiles and Scott both made the team. And Danny’s actually pretty cool, except for the fact that he’s so smart and so smooth that he doesn’t want to _hang out_ with Stiles as much, and definitely not around other people. He’s already hanging out with Juniors.

Stiles would even settle for just _not_ being near Jackson in general, because as much chemistry as they have, they can’t have nice things. Jackson is a child who breaks vases and picture frames. At least, that’s what he’s like in Stiles’ head, and Stiles is actually pretty sure that’s not too far from the truth. The rude comments like _Me? Being seen with...you?_ that Stiles can practically feel rattling around his ears are enough deterrent from investing any more than has already been invested.

And yet.

Freshman biology is not supposed to be a lab-centered class. It’s more of a _you kids need a science that doesn’t involve glass beakers you kids break everything Jackson and Stiles break everything Jackson Whittemore and Stiles Stilinski break—_

“Mr. Stilinski, your lab partner for this year will be Mr. Whittemore.”

Stiles just stares at her for a moment. The longest anything has held his attention since the start of last summer. She starts to read the next pair of names on her clipboard but she sees him staring, zombie-like, probably some sort of stupid-looking. She takes her glasses off and grinds her knuckles into her hip, rising to the challenge.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles snaps out of it. “Uh, yeah. Jackson and I have a history of not working well together. Like fighting and getting sent to the principal’s office.” Some of the kids in class giggle, muffling it with their hands, remembering well. Stiles waves his hand in the air and makes a face. “Probably not a great idea to have us working together this year. It just...might be a problem.”

“A problem?” she asks, lips quirked in a smile. “Mr. Stilinski, there will be no problems in this classroom.”

God help him. Fortunately, this isn’t supposed to be a lab-centered class.

“Your lab partners will be your group partners for group projects, study guides, and test corrections. For large-group projects, you will pair up with other partnerships.”

 _Fuck_.

Stiles turns in his seat to look at Jackson, who has the same murderous look he had in the locker room the weekend before school started. Stiles turns around in his seat, folds his arms on his desk, and slams his face into them. If he thought he was finally getting away from this, he could not have asked for a more potent way to crush his optimism. This is the _only_ class he has with Jackson this year. He asks the face of his desk why it had to be _this_ one.

Because this means that there are going to be more projects at one house or the other. After-school meetings. Being near Jackson which holds the equal potential of being punched and being fucked. Stiles is certain that Jackson could manage both at the same time, if he really put his back into it. Being near Jackson: like he has to be for stupid things like corrections for the syllabus quiz that they both missed two questions on. Unfortunately, that’s four questions they have to explain, four right answers they have to rationalize, and the teacher has given them ten minutes at the beginning of class to do it.

“I bet if we got in another fight, she’d break us up for good,” Stiles mumbles in the sea of mutterances that is a classroom at work.

Jackson snorts and chokes back a full laugh, but that’s about it.

 

Their first assignment of the school year, like _real_ assignment, is in biology. Of course it is. It’s the dumbest thing ever, too, because it’s a pre-lab. And this isn’t a lab-based class. And they don’t even have a lab in their classroom. They have to switch classrooms with a sophomore chemistry class so that they can have sinks and instruments.

And Stiles expects that the teacher will let them work together in class again, but she doesn’t. She gives them their worksheets, one for each partnership, and tells them that ninth graders should be smart enough to figure out how to do it on their own time.

Which means that Jackson ends up at Stiles’ house while Stiles’ father is on patrol, and he lays the ground rules.

“I’ll work in the kitchen. You work in the living room.”

Jackson just stares at him blankly. “There’s only one sheet.”

Stiles holds the up the sheet in question. In his other hand, he holds the notebook paper onto which he copied all of the questions. “See? We come up with our answers, compare them when they’re done, and stick with whatever is right.”

Jackson rolls his eyes and staches the original sheet from Stiles. Takes a seat at the couch. Works diligently for about half an hour.

Which is about the amount of time that this still seems to actually be a good idea. For that half hour, Stiles prides himself on his ability to mediate things between them so that they can at least get through this class.

And yet, at about the half hour mark, Stiles gets hit in the back of the head with Jackson’s pencil. Which Jackson threw. Stiles turns around and looks at it for a moment before turning to scowl at Jackson.

“What the hell?” he begins to say at the same time that Jackson says, “You guys don’t even have a stupid pencil sharpener?”

“It’s in my room! God, you had to throw a pencil at me, just for that?”

Jackson snorts and stands up, walking into the kitchen to retrieve his pencil. Stiles waits until he’s almost reached it before kicking it away, back towards the living room. Jackson stares at him for a moment, seeming to debate the merits of engaging, before turning to grab it from where it’s rolled into the carpet.

Stiles won’t say he’s disappointed that nothing happened, but he does follow Jackson up to his room. Just to make sure that he doesn’t get into anything. Or mess anything up.

Jackson makes a beeline for the messy desk and Stiles flops down onto his bed. The pencil sharpener grates obligingly, Jackson stands silently, Stiles kicks at the side of the bed. Feet swinging back and forth, Jackson turning his head over his shoulder to watch him, frowning, possibly appraising. Not paying attention and accidentally taking an inch or two off of his pencil.

Throwing the pencil down and approaching the bed like a shadow, quietly, surprising Stiles when he drops down on top of him.

“You’re so _fucking_ annoying,” he grumbles.

Stiles smiles cheekily. “Yeah, that’s why you’re all up on me.”

Jackson actually hits him. In the side, pain blossoming outward and killing the mood but Jackson kisses him anyways. Their pants come undone and neither know whether they undressed themselves or each other. Jackson _actually kisses him_. Stiles loses his breath for a moment but Jackson doesn’t seem to think anything of it. But Stiles is losing his nerve. Is Jackson experienced? Has he done this with other people?

To himself, Stiles thinks that Jackson is the only person he’s ever been with, as far as not just kissing. It’s not monogamy, it’s just sad. The fingers he has clenched in Jackson’s t-shirt loosen and he doesn’t really respond to the kiss much anymore. He was clumsy in it, anyways. Jackson seems to notice the lack of response, leans back to scrutinize, looking Stiles up and down.

“What?”

“Who else have you been with?”

Jackson barks out a laugh and starts to stand up, but Stiles grabs him by his shoulder. “Never mind, then. I was just asking.”

“ _Why_?”

Coiling at the question, Stiles says, “Because you’ve gotten better at kissing.”

“What, was I bad before?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

Jackson’s face contorts a little and he hits Stiles again. Stiles kicks out at him. The both collapse against the mattress in a fit of wretched limbs and hair-pulling. Being more physically fit, Jackson has no trouble maneuvering Stiles onto his stomach, one arm twisted behind his back. Stiles taps for mercy and Jackson gives it to him, both of them laying across his bed with breaths heaving in their chests. Stiles side-eyes Jackson and smiles at him. Jackson rolls his eyes and doesn’t smile back.

It wouldn’t be so hard if every project they work on together could be like this. Just goofing around. Stiles could actually like Jackson if it were for the goofing around. At school, Jackson doesn’t even go near him, so the physical contact almost seems friendly, sometimes.

But of course it’s not. The next time they kiss, they’re ignoring a study guide for their first test on lab terminology. They agree that it should be a quiz instead of a test, but it’s not, and so there’s a study guide (and later there will be test corrections).

The next time they kiss, Stiles ignore the fact that Jackson is definitely improving and pretends that he is just as good. Jackson gets Stiles to open their jeans and take both of them in his fist, pressed together, so close it could kill him. He finishes first, nobody’s name on his lips and nobody’s face in his mind.

During a poster board presentation they’re putting together, Stiles lets Jackson finger him. It spans the spectrum of _worst feeling ever_ to _best feeling ever_ in a remarkably short amount of time.

At one point, he even gets down on his knees and blows Jackson. He’s foregone keeping track of what happens during what projects. One day, he’ll be married to Lydia Martin, or he’ll be in a real relationship with someone real who really likes him, and knowing the layout of events as they occur with Jackson won’t even matter.

As it stands, he really loves the night that they do a pre-lab for something involving iodine and a plastic back, and Jackson decides to blow him in return.

They’re finishing up a diagram, colored in and everything, when Stiles asks Jackson what he’s doing for the summer. Their pants are still off, boxers barely pulled up, shirts still rucked from where they were shoved out of the way. It’s okay. It’s normal. Stiles doesn’t think about it anymore. Casual dress.

“I’m going out of state with my parents.”

“When?”

Jackson looks up at him and makes him feel stupid for a moment before looking back down at their diagram. “For the summer.”

“The _whole_ summer?”

“Yeah.” Jackson smirks at the kidney he’s drawing. “What, you gonna miss me?”

“No.”

Of course not. Stiles is just going to have a difficult time adjusting to life without Jackson, otherwise known as life without getting any. And he’s sure that when next year rolls around and Jackson is captain of the lacrosse team and in all different classes and dating Lydia Martin for real, they’re never going to see each other and yeah. That might be a difficult change to adjust to.

“Sure, whatever,” Jackson mutters, obviously not believing Stiles. Stiles kind of doesn’t believe himself either.

They’ve already done it tonight, each already finishing by each other’s hand, but Jackson still pushes the long sheet of butcher paper off the bed so that he can roll towards Stiles without crumpling it. Pushes Stiles down into the mattress the way he would a ragdoll, maybe, but holds his face gently, urging him closer and kissing him. Not slow, not romantic, but the best that Jackson can do.

Stiles tries really hard not to think about that when he goes to bed.

 

Jackson gives him one last go for the road the night before he leaves, but it doesn’t curb the hunger that comes a few nights later, or a few nights after that. Jackson asked if Stiles wanted his new cell number, but Stiles waved him off. His pride is dwindling and he’s wishing he’d taken it.

Scott doesn’t see the harm in summer. “At least you don’t have to hang out with Jackson anymore.”

 

 _At least you don’t have to hang out with Jackson anymore_ , Scott says in May. Scott's got a job, of course he can say that. He hangs out with animals all day. In June, Stiles’ dad takes him out for fast food and says, _I thought you didn’t like that guy_. Stiles just angrily sucks at his straw and talks about getting his license. They get it done the next week. In July, Stiles dreams of his mom and won’t talk for an entire day. It’s not like there are many people to talk to, anyways.

In August Jackson comes back and stays home for a few days. Stiles knows about it all, but he’s okay now. The lonely isn’t so bad. And Scott isn’t working as many hours anymore, cutting back in preparation of the school year, so Stiles gets to see him more. Deaton even let him come back and hang out for fifteen minutes while Scott closed up the other night. He’s certain the guy is coming around with him.

It isn’t until the night before school starts that Stiles decides to text Jackson. Maybe invite him over, just see what he looks like now. The answer is older. Much older than before. Has he looked like this always? Is it the tan? The lightened hair?

He just stands there in the doorway for a moment, staring, Jackson staring as well, though perhaps impatiently? Waiting on Stiles maybe? Probably not noticing how he’s different, as well.

“You gonna let me in?” he finally asks, and Stiles steps back, out of the way.

“Yeah. Come on,” Stiles says, turning on his heel. The walk to his bedroom should feel very familiar, it’s one they’ve made together many times, but it doesn’t. It feels very much like the first time, where Stiles isn’t sure what’s going to happen, or if he’s even going to like it. He gets into the bedroom and just stands there.

Jackson sits on his bed. The bed that Stiles and Jackson have always shared. With the way Jackson is sitting, down at the foot of it, they can both lay on it without touching. It’s the first thing Stiles does, is lay across the bed as far away from Jackson as possible. “This is incredible,” he says. “I never knew there was enough space on this thing not to touch you. Just imagine—it was a stroke of luck that we did it at all.”

A roll of the eyes conveys exactly what Jackson thinks of that, but he lays back on the bed, and his head almost reaches Stiles’ belly. He scoots back a little bit so that it does, using his stomach for a pillow. With the added pressure, Stiles can feel his heartbeat, his trunk throbbing with the pulse. He knows that Jackson can hear it.

“Been a long summer without me?” Jackson asks like he knows it has.  “No,” Stiles retorts, which only sounds half-true because it was only true for half of the summer. “I was busy. I got my license.”

“Yeah? Did that take three whole months for you?”

Stiles huffs out a laugh that pushes Jackson’s head around. Jackson reaches up and elbows him tenderly, willing him still once more. Not quite in outright defiance, but somewhat like he belatedly realizes he wants to see Jackson’s face, he lifts himself up onto his elbows and looks down.

“You cut off your hair,” Jackson points out lamely.

“Yeah. Couple months ago.”

Jackson licks his lips and frowns, leaning up to kiss Stiles. Stiles tries to make it easier, because they’re still sort of perpendicular, and he sort of ends up kneeing Jackson in the head so Jackson frogs him just above the knee and they end up tumbling onto the floor before they can even get a real kiss in, and this is what it feels like to have something come together, Stiles thinks. Maybe tomorrow, Jackson will acknowledge him in the school hallway.

Or maybe he’ll just stick his hand down the back of Stiles’ jeans, find him a little bit wet from where he may or may not have masturbated earlier. Maybe Jackson will just pull his pants down, lay with him, and never talk to him again. It’s just as likely as Jackson holding him close, asking politely with the little _pleases_ and everything, _please, Stiles, can I fuck you?_

The kind of thing that Stiles has never been ready to say yes to until now. It’s always been _at least he’s never fucked me_. The blowjobs, the handjobs, the spooning, but _at least I’ve never let it get that far_.

“Yes.” He pauses and his face screws up and he kind of closes in on himself. “But I mean, I’m not, like...you’re gonna have to—”  

“I know, Stiles,” Jackson grinds out, eyes almost rolling out of his head this time. Jackson came back sassier, and Stiles is starting to feel like he shouldn’t do this. What if Jackson doesn’t do it right? What if they move too quickly? What if he hurts Stiles? Or most importantly, doesn’t care about Stiles at all?

But he kisses like he does. Or like how Stiles would imagine he would if he does. Holding him. Opening him: his legs, his mouth, his body flattening against the bed, willing Jackson closer into him. Letting it go that far. Letting Jackson put his fingers in him and then, even then, asking for more. Stiles has had things in him, considerable things, experimental things, but nothing like Jackson.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Yes,” Jackson responds, and neither of them say names or mention deities or say anything but quiet consents and round noises, rolling out of their chests. Softly, so as not to be heard. Stiles thought his first time would hurt, but he doesn’t have the breath in him to exclaim that it doesn’t. He’ll have to tell Jackson later. He ruminates on it, body throbbing excitedly with every one of Jackson’s thrusts, thinks about how much it doesn’t hurt. How silly he was to think that Jackson would hurt him like this. It’s been a long time since he was shoving Stiles into lockers. He won’t hurt him now.

And when they finish, they don’t finish together. Jackson goes first, and Stiles can tell when it’s happening because Jackson stills completely, pushes in almost too deep, and Stiles can feel his dick give a slow, thick throb. Jackson moans loud, tired-sounding. Pulling out and the condom hangs with its contents. Jackson discards it sloppily, looking very much like he doesn’t exactly know how to throw it away so he just does.

When he comes back to the bed, Stiles is still laying there, sprawled, breath wide and deep and desperate. It shallows, shortens when Jackson bends down and takes him in his mouth. Stiles bows up and curls his fingers around Jackson’s shoulders. He didn't even have to ask. He doesn’t last long after that. Strangely, he’s completely silent when he finishes.

After, Jackson crawls back up the length of the bed to lay side by side with Stiles. They don’t speak. They don’t really touch either, barring the overlap of elbows and bowed out knees. It’s casual, as though neither of them realize that they’re touching, but they certainly don’t seek to touch any more.

That is to say, the afterglow is normal. Stiles realizes that he wasn’t sure if it would be weird, if they would try to cuddle; if there was some unspoken rule that after having sex for the first time, one is bound to an unmentioned afterglow ritual. Something that the cool kids learned from R rated movies, the kind of movies that Stiles never watched and so never learned.

But no. Jackson stares at the ceiling, Stiles stares at the ceiling, and for a long time, neither of them talk. At length, Jackson takes in a breath, opening his mouth, looking about ready to say something when the phone rings.

There are footsteps downstairs, and Stiles glances at the clock. No way. No way somebody is calling this late and it isn’t interesting. He scrambles over to his desk to plug his phone into its outlet, delicately raising it off the receiver as soon as he does. When he looks back towards Jackson, the look on Jackson’s face makes him realize how crazy he probably seems, but he just smiles and waves his arm to signal that it’s okay. No biggie.

“—immediately.”

There is the heavy draw of breath from what sounds like his father. “Are you sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“I mean, this town has seen some crazy stuff, but—”

“We would not be calling you out if it weren’t serious. State troopers'll probably be here in under an hour.”

“I understand. Have you checked the surrounding area?”

“We’re waiting for your call.”

“Half a body.” Disbelief and another heavy breath. “Alright, I’m on my way.”

The call clicks to an end, and Stiles hangs up in awe. Okay, way biggie. He scrambles around the room looking for his clothes, finding them all in random order and compiling them on the bed before putting anything on. Jackson has sat up and is about to ask questions when Stiles’ dad knocks on his door.

Jackson and Stiles exchange wild glances, and Jackson ducks behind the bed seconds before the door pushes open.

“Stiles, I—Jesus, son, don’t you lock the door when you change?” The Sheriff ducks back out of the room.

“Sorry, dad,” Stiles mutters, shoving his legs into his underwear. “Didn’t think there would be an intrusion.”

“Yeah, well, something’s come up, and the guys need me down at the preserve. I’ll probably be home late.”

“Alright, dad.”

The Sheriff sticks around for a moment, seeming to wait for Stiles' inquisition, but it doesn't come. Hesitantly, he takes his leave. They wait until the Sheriff is gone and the sound of the front door locking echoes through the house before moving again. Jackson stands from his hiding position behind the bed, walking around it to take a seat near where Stiles is standing. Stiles resumes fumbling his way into his clothes.

“Where are you going?” Jackson asks.

Stiles shrugs and mumbles something about the preserve and says more clearly that he’s going to get Scott. Jackson watches idly but thinks to himself that Stiles is not going to invite him as well. So be it. He pulls his own clothes on and takes his leave at the same time as Stiles, who sees his new car for the first time and compliments him on it. They stand beside their cars for a moment, Jackson on the curb, Stiles in the driveway, and neither move. Jackson thinks they'll stand there forever, and his temper is beginning to boil when Stiles moves.

Moves forward, across the lawn, away from his Jeep, to kiss Jackson. He allows it. It's dark outside, and Stiles doesn't live on the same street as anyone from the high school, so it's not a problem. It's also not a problem that Jackson winds his arm around Stiles' waist, pulling him closer, leaning them both against his Porsche. Or that Stiles takes the shoulders of his shirt into his fists, holding on tightly.

"Okay," Stiles says when he pulls away, his voice unsteady, as though he lost it somewhere in the kiss. "Okay, I guess I'll see you at school tomorrow."

"Yeah," Jackson mumbles and can't think of anything clever, just says, "Don't get killed, whatever you're doing."

Stiles smiles and shrugs his shoulders. "No promises."

 

While definitely not dead, Jackson can immediately classify both Stilinski and McCall as _off_ somehow, with validation from Danny who asks him if he knows what happened to them. He doesn't, but after seeing McCall on the field, he's convinced it has something to do with chemicals. Not that he would expect Stiles to mention something like this to him, especially not when it's about Scott, but he wishes he would have.

 

The worst part of it is that Stiles is suddenly buddy-buddy with some older guy, who people keep saying is one of the Hales. Jackson tries to text Stiles about him, but he never gets a response. Okay. Okay, that's fine. They were never anything official anyways. Fine. Just because Stiles is hanging out with Derek Hale, that doesn't mean anything.

 

Everything is different. Stiles doesn't sleep as well at nights. He's not too surprised about that, he figures it comes with the territory of ruthless mass murderers coming into town, and oh, you know, _werewolves_. Anyways, he's not too upset that his fitful dreams are broken by the buzzing of his phone on his bedside table. He snatches it up, expecting it to be Scott, maybe even Derek or Allison, someone important, and finds that it's Jackson.

A brief sweep of nostalgia rushes through him and he opens the text, wanting to read something about how they have a project and his part is due by Thursday. He dreams of those better days. Instead, he gets,

(925): _Don't see you much anymore. been busy, stilinski?_

Stiles rubs his hand over his eyes and grinds his teeth together. His stomach twists and a pulse of arousal runs through him, but it all dies in the face of overwhelming sadness. Most days, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He was never fit to take care of his own dying mother, and now he has werewolves, he has hunters. Everybody is trying to kill each other. He's so scared of losing his father.

It hurts that on top of that, he's already let go of Jackson.

It's okay, he tells himself. Jackson is safer, isn't he? They were all safer that way.

_I know. I'm sorry._

Stiles doesn't have the heart to say that it's better like this.

 

None of Jackson's texts before tonight have meant anything. Until now, they've been conversational, the kinds of things he would say if Stiles would still talk to him, would still try to get him to come over in the mid afternoon when the house is empty.

But Jackson drank too much tonight and he feels like he's losing everything. His team, his girlfriend, his grades. Stiles. He doesn't mean for the text to come out the way it does. Bitter, edged with jealousy. He doesn't mean to get a response, but he does, and he doesn't mean to end the thread with _I miss you_. He really doesn't.

Swear down. He never meant to find himself in a position where he would miss Stiles.


End file.
